Dancing Shoes

Yesterday was so much fun. The shimmer of tulle, the creaminess of silk, the color of fresh pearls and the shiny pop of black patent shoes. The sweet smell of blush roses, a million tiny lights twinkling above and a decadent chocolate cake with tangy cream cheese icing. It was perfect.

I love everything about weddings, especially when the bride is one of my closest friends. I feel quite confident my daughter now loves them too. Yesterday, Lydia was flower girl alongside her best friend Lynnlee. For months now, we’ve been talking about this wedding and she cared really about two things. The first, her dress. The second, dancing.

My girl loves to dance. We do it nearly every day. She dances in restaurants, in Target, even in the bathroom. If she hears a song, she looks up at me and, without saying a word, I know exactly what she’s asking, “Momma, will you dance with me?” I haven’t always loved to dance. In middle school and high school, I cared far too much for what others thought of me. And in college I pretended I had more important things to do with my time. But deep down inside I wanted to dance. I wanted to not care what others thought, to be silly and laugh, to just enjoy that sweet moment.

My little girl is teaching me to do just that. We danced so much last night that my feet are quite sore today. (My friend Melody even taught me the Wobble. Hilarity ensued.) There’s something so freeing about dancing. You can act like a kid, carefree and completely confident in who you are. When she’s all grown up, I know I’ll look back on these moments dancing together, whether in our living room or on the dance floor, with a smile. Remembering the feel of her small hand in mine, her silky hair swirling around and those eyes just sparkling. Keep on dancin’, Lydi. I’ll be right there beside you.